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We manufacture memory
in the ceaselessly industrious cavern of the heart
with the same fervor, the same zealot enthusiasm
with which moments of unabashed adoration
seize us, enthrall us, consume us.

Lemongrass and musk
sandalwood and pine
hide in the candle
awaiting the note of fire played
in the very air.

You become a symphony of whispers
that steals the very notion of now
replacing it, before my eyes with
skin-burning recollection of hunger.

Breathing the sharp, sweet trace of you
On sheets I refuse, just yet,
to change.

I collapse, grasp at air and wakening blood.
I hug the empty space,
Your scent become substance.

Behind my eyes, the glyph of you
driven by this incense memory
spirals down, down
through my persevering heart
into the pit of my stomach.
I am ravaged, laid bare, a vineyard in winter.
Just as you were, we were
A Genesis, a creation,
A forever beckoning shadow of no return.